During my lifetime, I have heard countless tales of such diverse origin and genre that any attempt to categorize, list, or journalize them would be futile. From family, friends, acquaintances, and even strangers I have occasionally heard narrative, sworn to by the teller to be true and accurate, that would challenge anyone’s perception of what is reality. In fact, I’ve found times when even the most outrageously conjured stories pale in comparison to real-life events; and because there are so many of these extraordinary accountings conveyed to which we can’t deny authenticity, society might be inclined to rethink the meaning of fantasy.
For some this compilation of short stories may affirm the aphorism “truth is stranger than fiction” and for others it will absolutely disperse it. Either way, regardless of the consequence and being reasonably confident most readers will (to say the least) be entertained, I offer this anthology of recollections.
The Finest Tale Ever Told
The finest tale I ever heard was not told me in words. I didn’t hear it from any wise elder or listen to it on the news. You see, it wasn’t that kind of a story; nor was it a tale devised of imagination or make-believe. There are no lips to mouth this tale, no voice to sound its plot. No ear can hear, no eye can see; this rendition authored by memory.
My fascination with “hands” started when first I saw those of my father constructing something useful from what to me was little more than scrap pieces of defunct wood. In knowing the tales “my hands” hold, I often imagine and sometimes fantasize what wonders are secured in others. Stop and think for a moment about your hands… the tools given us to reach out and embrace life. I look at mine often and in that view, if I listen hard I can hear their story.
Sincerely, in looking at my hands, I see those of my Father; the support that held me as I learned to walk. In looking deeper, memory again embraces the warmth and my heart rejoices in the many treasures acquainted to the compassionate touch of Mother. I see vividly, the medium that caught me when I stumbled and picked me up after a fall. These very hands fed, clothed, and defended me; they held the love of my life and dried the tears of my children. They are more than tools to educate and suffice, they are the medium through which I explored and conceived the magic that comes with touch. They enabled me to create, to be gentle…to work, to grow…to share, to defend, to know pleasure and to survive pain.
They served me well these hands of mine, even as I caused them to become sticky, wet, bent, dried, raw and broken. Though at times they knew mostly abuse, this day they remain my best friend…for they hold all that I am.
Only now, after decades of neglect have I awarded them my appreciation. The hands that my eyes now see and my mind learned to hear, willingly whisper a tale-often two, of how a youth found his way from yesterday to today. Each time I look, I discover in them still,another story penned in the fashion of today’s passing. It is then that I find myself wishing…somehow I could relate their contents to a certain chosen few.
Today, when little else on me works very well these hands still manage to lift me off my backside, lay me down, and on occasion fold in prayer. They are the gauge of where I have been and what I have learned. They scribble in silence the quiet memories of my life and repute the ruggedness. Their usefulness is less apparent these days and I pray they will have the strength, when the time comes for them to perform the ultimate task: to reach out and take the hand of the Almighty when He calls me.
According to My Old Man
People use words like integrity, honor, duty, and self-respect to describe both the moral and ethical state of an individual’s character. These traits manifest and mature as we learn to “talk the talk” and “walk the walk.” However, there is no guaranty as to their permanence.
According to “Pa,” no man is truly a man unless, when in taking each and every step on his path, he walks the way he talks and no man stands taller than he who tolerates his own principles. In the eyes of the majority of his children, Father assumed a different personality dependant on situation and circumstance. I wholeheartedly have to disagree with them! To me he was a pillar of strength, an ocean of truth, unwavering in his desire to provide, protect, and promote all he claimed to be his “legacy” and for that reason, He is the very foundation on which I chose to erect my family.
Pa never had much compassion (if any at all) for the lazy or for those who squandered their means and then never had enough for necessities. However, for those who were genuinely in need, his heart was as big as all outdoors. It was from him I learned that the greatest joy in life comes from giving, not from receiving. Although his presence can no longer be felt by my hand, it most assuredly still exists here, inside the being that I know as me.
In the role of provider, his primary concern was assuring the family’s vital needs such as food, clothing, and shelter. He was indubitably diligent and hard working—a model of responsibility and commitment, deserving not merely recognition as provider, but respect and admiration for personal integrity and perseverance. He was a man whose talents went far beyond those of securing a means for subsistence. He so enjoyed hunting and fishing and loved both almost as much as he did playing his baritone horn in the local town bands. A skilled carpenter, Pa also grew vegetables like a true farmer; made wine to satisfy royalty, and could swear in three languages. His was a self-instilled philosophy, influenced by situation and circumstance of both his environment and the times. The Old Man beamed with integrity and all who knew him agree… he was an honorable man, a man of his word whose deeds reinforced the meaning of courage, strength, determination, and confidence. He is the foundation of my legacy—the shadow companion that walks with me as I journey through this wonderful thing called life. He is “Pa.”
